


it feels so scary (getting old).

by sanquiine (occultine)



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan
Genre: Angst, Dark, Gen, Hazel Levesque is a Good Sibling, Hurt Nico di Angelo, Hurt/Comfort, Jason Grace is a Good Friend, Nico di Angelo Feels, Pre-Nico di Angelo/Will Solace - Freeform, Pre-Slash, Sad, Slice of Life, Suicidal Thoughts, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-11-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21619801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/occultine/pseuds/sanquiine
Summary: Run. Don't look back.  There is war brewing underneath his feet, churning in the shifting soil. There is a black sword hanging from his belt and the dusting of long-forgotten bones by his feet.orNico di Angelo, through the ages.(please heed the tags. warnings for suicidal thoughts, self harm and violence.)
Relationships: Annabeth Chase/Percy Jackson, Calypso/Leo Valdez, Hazel Levesque/Frank Zhang, Jason Grace/Piper McLean, Nico di Angelo/Will Solace
Comments: 9
Kudos: 125





	it feels so scary (getting old).

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my docs for a while. please mind the tags, sensitive topics are explored in this and i don't want anyone to be triggered by it, please stay safe !!

  
  


He was born within the shadows of his mother's fractured life, divinity in his blood– the world is on his shoulders. They didn't tell him at eleven that the world is darker than he could have imagined, sharper than the stabbing in his heart as he lays restless in the Hermes cabin with planks of wood digging into his spine. 

(He remembers the rawness of his words when he tried not to get caught in the ocean storms he used to think were pretty). 

Blooming in the darkness of a sunset– thriving in the cold shadows of the gods, he _lives_ , barely, with the clothes on his back his life support in this dark dark world, the ashes of his childhood still dusting his hands when angry flames reflect in his eyes. 

(Don't you know your time is running out)?

  
  
  


His name makes him sad and he realises he can talk to the dead when he is eleven and a half. The wind's fragile scream mourn for him, his hair still wet from the summer rain and spirit still dampened from the-

His name is Nico di Angelo and he trusts the ghost out of childhood naivety. 

(His mother calls to him from her grave. “Don't trust anyone,” she says). 

  
  
  


Run. Don't look back. There is war brewing underneath his feet, churning in the shifting soil. There is a black sword hanging from his belt and the dusting of long-forgotten bones by his feet. 

He trains with the ancient heros, learns their secrets, the truths stamped into the ground; his siblings tell him of the powers he didn't even know existed– and in turn he tells them about how the world still sings songs about them and of the books written in their honour, a rare wonder sparkling on the pasty skin. 

He thinks that somewhere in their dead dead hearts they know that it is not true, but they listen when he tells them of a beautiful world where their legacies thrive, and they tell him of all they know. 

The dread trust Nico, and Nico trusts the dead. 

  
  


(His mother calls-

“Don't trust,”

-she says”)

  
  
  


The acid in the air stings his skin, but he knows this is nothing to the churning ripples of the River Styx. He watches Percy succumb to agony and holds his breath, clenches his fists until a head of hair he has grown to both love and hate breaks the surface, skin red and blistering and for a minute he can't breathe because _this is all his fault._

Percy tells him to stay _here_ , and he hates himself and stares at the churning ripples in the river and tries to blink away the tears. Percy tells him to stay here and Percy doesn't trust him. 

(He doesn't trust himself either). 

  
  
  


(“Don't trust,”

she says).

  
  
  
  


Manhattan is shrouded with the darkness he can feel in his hollow bones, monsters clawing around his ankles and These Are The Enemy– this is what he fights against. 

He arrives with his father and a brittle semblance of clarity, a dark sword in his hand and adrenaline leaking through the gaps in the clouds. Don't be scared– don't look back. He is strong and he is Nico di Angelo and his heart clenches with every breath through his charcoal lungs. 

  
  
  


He thinks that maybe in the twelve years he has wasted away on this cold cold world that he should have learned that he can never stay in one place for too long. The echoing in his bones resonates through his blood, his dirty secrets, and he taps a pencil against his knees and tries not to dig his fingernails into his palms. (Maybe he's falling apart)!

Days become weeks that become whispers of the truth that he thought he could escape. (He's not sure why he's still here, either– he's not sure why his hands shake when he sits still for too long). 

  
  
  


By the time his thirteenth birthday rolls around his lips are tinged with blue from staying in the snow too long, hands numb from plunging his hands into a frozen lake to see how long he can keep them there (46 seconds and a record to beat, he counts).

There is a knife strapped securely to his belt and a couple more in the souls of his boots, a roll of twenty dollar bills clenched in his fists as he runs from the flashes of red and blue behind him. This is not how he'd wanted to spend his birthday– he's not sure what day it really is, anyways. 

Snow rests on the curve of his cheekbones, sinks into the ebony of his hair. It glints on the pavements, on the rooftops, on the bandage that wraps around his left thigh. There is snow and frost and his lips are blue and–

and 

and 

and–

This is where it starts– this is where it all _begins._

(He's not even sure what that means). 

  
  
  


How to love yourself (in six steps):

  * Stand in front of a mirror and tell yourself a thousand times that you are beautiful and maybe then you will believe it. Result in shards of glass in your fists– remember the agony.



  * Scream that you are worth it until your throat bleeds. Lick the blood from your lips and remember that you will never be strong enough.



  * Seek out the woman whose lips are stained in pomegranates. Spit in her face– remind her that you can– you _will–_ be _better._ Listen to your father's angry words and take them with a pinch of salt. Remind yourself that you will Never. Be. Good. Enough. 



  * Surprise the gods the titans the monsters– look into their hollow eyes and give them something to _see_. Grit your teeth and crack your fingers, swallow back your screams– stare into the endless eyes and surprise the world that is laughing at you. (Laugh at yourself too).



  * Smile in the face of death. Remember not to step on his toes when you dance.



  * Go down fighting.



(Go down a savage).

  
  
  
  
  


“Nico, dear, take these before you leave.”

  
  
  
  
  


Leads the girl– his _sister_ , the one he did not trek through the Underworld to find but now that he has he cannot let her go– through the gates of Hell. Holding her hand and ignoring all the warning signs flashing through his head– this is dangerously destructive but he can't bring himself to care. 

It feels strange to talk again to someone who isn't as dead as the mindless ghosts but he supposes half way there, teetering on the edge between living and not. She is more like him than she seems, out of time and out of luck. 

It strikes him that his voice is shaking.

  
  
  
  


Hazel is all the things he can never be. Calm and sweet and gentle and she braids flowers into her pretty hair while he washes the blood from his (his hands are always stained in redredred). She makes him laugh, something he never thought he would do without Bianca glued to his side, and in return he tells her everything he knows about this big big world; they are two are kids out of time– (your time is running out). 

Hold her hand when she wakes from her sleep with tears on her cheeks and tell her that _everything is going to be okay._ He has never been one for lying like that– now he can't help himself. 

(This is where it all begins–)

  
  
  


Camp Jupiter is what he had imagined: strict military rules and buzz cuts, soldiers and shining armour. There is a static in the air, something he can't place until the soldier, _Praetor,_ introduces himself as Jason Grace, son of Jupiter, and everything falls into place as his world falls apart around him.

This is where it starts– this is where it all begins.

  
  


He is fourteen when he realises he is an exceptional liar, good enough to convince the Praetors of New Rome themselves to allow Hazel into their camp. Curls of cinnamon disappear into the distance and he thinks maybe a part of himself too. 

“It’s been a pleasure meeting you both,” he says, between gritted teeth, chapped lips. Jason smiles and Reyna narrows her eyes. 

(This is where it starts).

He takes his leave and steps into the cold cold world. 

(This is where it all begins).

  
  
  
  


(Screams until his can no longer, screams his prayers to an uncaring god). They have him at his mercy– his arrogance is his downfall and even the gods cannot find him now. His hands are tied behind his back and his bones are falling apart.

(You cannot escape your destiny). 

  
  


Dark flames singe his hair and scorch his skin, a prickling of an awaiting inferno he knows is almost breaching the surface. His surroundings are an endless expense of crumbling cliffs and the air acidic and burning. Smoke obscures most of what's above him, and curls from the ground in blurs of darkness. 

Here, the monsters are stronger, faster, itching for blood. He is the intruder- out for blood, out of time.

Frothing at the mouth, their eyes are bloody and glowing, angry at the world and bitter at everything else, razor-like claws itching to sink into the flesh of a demi-god just like him and now he is the intruder out for blood. 

By the time he is fourteen, he is already a dead man walking. 

(Tread lightly, you’re walking on the skin of a monster).

  
  
  


Divinity is running through his veins. He is starved of the affection of the gods. There is a two inch deep wound in his stomach and a snaking of lethal blood poisoning winding to his heart. And this? This is the end.

These are the final minutes of his life.

(This is where it all begins).

  
  
  


Teeth bared under pomegranate stained lips, he screams and pounds his fists against the glass until his knuckles split open and the glass is slippery from blood. A cacophony of scratching laughter echoes through his spinning head- he scratches a mark into the glass. 

“Oh how you will make such a brilliant show,” rings through the jar. His ribs are prominent against his chest, and he almost vomits when he sees his reflection in his own blood.

(This is how it all ends). 

  
  


Days come and pass until he is not really aware of anything anymore. Knees pressed against his chest, he shivers and curls tighter around himself as if that will stop the pain pulsing in his ribs, the burning in his stomach. 

The lines snaking to his heart are growing and time is running out. He should be dead.

(He wishes he was).

  
  
  


It doesn't take Tartarus long to claim another victim. Percy and Annabeth fall– 

and it's always Percy and Annabeth or Annabeth and Percy, never just Percy, or just Annabeth, because they operate together and that is how they _work_ –

–and to think that before he had enough naivety to think nothing could get any worse. He makes a promise he will keep until his dying breath and screams into his pillow until he can't breathe. 

They don’t hear him when he whispers, “Tread carefully, you're walking on the skin of a monster,” into the chopping waves below.

  
  
  
  


Everything is a blur. He's not sure what is real. 

  
  
  


He spends his days starting a blank wall or the vast sea, too scared to sleep from the fear of waking up There again, so he doesn't, food bringing nausea to his throat. His ribs are prominent and wrists thin. This is not helping anything. He can't breathe anymore. He doesn't think he wants to. 

  
  
  


His name is Nico di Angelo and Hazel reaches out with gentle touches and kind smiles he can never have. He tries to ignores her creased brow, and worried state after a while of reassurance. 

He kisses her cheek and challenges the others- the _heroes_ whose names will be remembered and remembered and remembered- he challenges Jason with his golden hair and eyes that never really settle, to a quest into Croatia that he could never have anticipated. 

Jason's eyes never settle. Nico is more perceptive than they think. 

  
  
  


He screams his throat bloody when they return, sick from the humiliation and realisation that Jason _knows_ and he is so _disgusting_ and soon everybody is going to know and-

He screams his throat bloody in the solitude of the night and digs his nails into his thighs until they bleed. (The wind is screaming back). 

  
  
  
  


He's falling apart he's falling apart he's f a l

l l i

n g 

a p a 

r t

! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

  
  
  


He has no place among these heroes with his heart of ivory and mismatched thoughts and hands shaking with the prayers to gods he knows aren't listening. Hands shaking- his hands are _shaking_ and he can fit his hands between his thighs even when he sits, an eternity between his torn up thighs and satisfaction on his tongue. 

(Tell me what it is like to scream).

His has nothing left in his bones except for a hollow sense of dread and a need for validation, insecurities and regret eating away the marrow and making home in his arteries. There is nothing in his bones but this despair that writers like to wax into poetry as the moonlight smears across their skin. (There is nothing beautiful about this. There is nothing-).

(Tell me what it is like to scream)!

  
  
  


PercyandAnnabeth crawl from death with dark stares and bloody words, and there is a darkness beneath Percy's skin that he has not seen before, something dark that he can feel bubbling underneath his skin as it does his own. 

Annabeth is distant and tortured and her blonde hair is matted with blood and desperation, pleading with hands clasped in prayer to a deity too divine to think of anything else. She regards them with a detached horror embedded in her eyes. Corruption breathes in their steps. 

PercyandAnnabeth crawl from Hell and Nico can't help but hate himself and wish himself dead. 

  
  
  
  


He can't do this again. 

He can't do this again.

~~He can't do this again.~~

  
  
  
  


He thinks maybe his desolation creeps into his voice when he speaks, echoes through his words as his thoughts do his mind, drips off his tongue like honey that makes his stomach convulse. Speaks with bitterness slipping into his words, and he's not trying to be ungrateful he's _not_ , but he is never going to be a hero and he does not _belong_ and _he can't do this again._

Reyna's stare is scrutinizing. He can't do this again.

(He cant- ).

  
  
  
  


Bites back his fear, his aviator jacket discarded and he's running out of things to cling on to, running out of things to remind him of his past. Bites back his fear and swallows the pain that flares across his skin, Reyna's tired eyes focused and alert, hands steady, breath silent. 

(This is how it all ends).

She has these eyes that he thinks watch him when he sleeps, surveying his pale skin and dark eyes, the way his hands are never still and the exhaustion within his bones. He can feel her eyes on him, her presence heavy and demanding, a warrior's heart encased in a cage of bones thudding in her chest. 

Red admiration bleeds from his wound. He hopes she sees it. 

(This is where it all begins-)

  
  
  
  


The first time he kills a man, he is 14. (Or maybe he isn't, maybe he's bathed in the blood of an enemy before, but one year ago he did not fight to kill. He's one year older, and he fights to kill).

The first time he kills a man he can't _breathe_ . The first time he kills a man he _screams._ The first time he kills a man he becomes everything he is so scared of being. The first time he kills a-

He's so disgusting. He thinks they realise that now. 

The first time he kills a man he wishes it were him instead. (But he has a job to do- this is not the time for weakness).

  
  
  


Sometimes, he lets himself wonder-

(the sky is a thousand shades of gold, the sun slowly sinking below the horizon as the clouds part as if for it, honeyed yellow blotching across his marble skin and glittering on his cheekbones. The sky is washed with soft colour that is so soft, so beautiful, that it sits heavy in his chest, a bittersweetness simmering in his thoughts)

-what would happen if his father was a man, not a god, capable of speaking words without sharpening them with knives first, to live without his shroud of darkness and the souls of the damned screaming in the seams. He wonders what would change if after this (nightmare, torment, _purgatory_ ) he _ran,_ slotted himself into the mortal world, finds a way to mask his scent and tries to not fuck up in that world, _too_ (figures he would just come running back to the gods with his tail in-between his legs when it all becomes too much because he is a _coward_ and _cowards_ can never escape).

(But this is war- it is not the time for wistful thinking).

  
  


They arrive at camp half blood with apprehension flooding their bones, adrenaline coursing through their veins. His fingers tremor. It is not the time for wistful thinking. 

The sun and resentment bubbles over the horizon, flooding the ground in a washed out yellow that fractures under the weight of a millennium long anger. He digs his heels into the ground and digs himself a grave. He can't stop thinking about death.

(It is not the time for wistful thinking). 

  
  
  
  


This is not the time for pleasantries; this is not the time for niceties. There is death brewing underneath his feet and war in the sunlight. Will Solace does not understand this. He doubts he ever will. 

  
  
  
  


Reyna swallows her grief and does what she has to do, what she has fought for, what Nico thinks she would die for. He watches her with big dark eyes shattering into the sunlight, something akin to veneration weaved into his stare. Red admiration bleeds from his heart. He hopes she can feel it too. 

  
  
  


Breaths soaked in adrenaline, a thousand words left to rot on his tongue, he holds his sword with steady fingers and writes his own obituary. Octavaian is too far within his own head to convince and his father's words echo through his thoughts. Maybe some deaths cannot be prevented. 

Chills lace up his spine, and he wishes himself dead. 

  
  
  


Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

  
  


(He's so disgusting)!

  
  
  


~~Grace~~ Jason radiates a kind of saturated brilliance, a dazzling electricity sparking from his fingertips. There are the remains of his childish innocence glinting in his eyes and the result of a stolen childhood creasing his forehead, blonde hair shining in the sunlight like gold. 

He carries himself with a fake bravado in his step, raised to be admired, to be a _hero,_ something Nico can see holding his heart with an iron fist threatening to pull it from his chest. He is more perceptive than they think. 

  
  
  


Tartarus wraps it's clammy fingers around his throat and squeezes. He breathes a rattling breath. Tartarus wraps it's clammy fingers around his neck and squeezes. He can't breathe anymore. He doesn't think he wants to. 

  
  
  


(He's so disgusting)!

  
  
  


Will Solace has blue eyes and golden skin and freckles on the bridge of his nose. Will Solace has pure blood running through his veins, a beating heart in his chest and perfect teeth that glint too white in the bright lights of the infirmary. Nico can't stop thinking about death. (It is not the time for wistful thinking).

  
  


He was born within the shadows of his mother's fractured life, divinity in his blood– the world is on his shoulders. He realises the world is darker than he could have imagined, sharper than the stabbing in his heart when he lays restless in the infirmary with death bitter on his tongue.

This is where it all starts- this is where it all begins.

(Don't you know your time is running out)!

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked this mess- it was all over the place and i wrote it over like a year so my writing changed a lot in that time. but. thank you for reading, please tell me what you think !!


End file.
